Skylark: A Sequel to Of Mice and Men
by LivLuv
Summary: Unsatisfied by the ending of that classic piece of literature? So was I!
1. Disclaimer

Disclaimer ~

Sadly, I don't own George Milton or any of the other characters that he talks about from his past life, unless otherwise stated. They all belong to John Steinbeck, the author of the actual novel. I think. 

I don't own the style of the writing either. That's a Steinbeck thing too. I tried to write (unsuccessfully) in the format he used in _Of Mice and Men_. 

Anyways, I own everyone and everything else and if you take them from me without permission I will bite you. So there.


	2. One

****

One 

****

In a golden part of the Sacramento Valley, there is a place hidden from the bustle of the real world. Nature knows no boundaries here, where the hot sun only reaches the tops of the highest trees. Clear creeks of cool water trickle in small numbers through the shaded wood, winding in and out of the lush foliage. Green plants of a varying variety grow entwined throughout the small wood, stretching taller as they thrive year after year. Deep, rich soil, heavily scented of the moist crispness of most green places covers the ground, occasionally mixed with shattered leaves shed by trees through time. Stones worn smooth by the elements lay scattered about on the forest floor, and beneath the stones live lizards and bugs the likes of which are hardly to be seen outside the dark world of the undergrowth. Rabbits run free here, only in fear of the red foxes that hunt for their meals. Every evening, the lullaby of the forest carries the woods to sleep, with the bullfrogs on croaking and the crickets chirping and the little birds singing their last twittering goodnights. 

The serene place is not altogether free of the human world however, for in the middle of the stretch of land covered with rows of thin birches, green and alive and in their prime, sits one proud, aged tree, gnarled and bent with time. One great oak, sprinkled sparingly with evergreen leaves, forever stretching its long arms upwards towards the heavens. And on this tree there is a broken limb, cracked in its own splintery dignity, where there was once a full branch. A full branch not a complete stranger to the sensation of a human's touch. 

The slow, humid breeze danced its way through the quiet afternoon, gently rattling out across the leaves of the great oaks. The vast plains of golden grass rippled and swelled like the Pacific, gleaming like a white light on glass. Sounds of life littered the air. Squirrels chattered busily to their neighbors while they worked. Jays cawed and little birds twittered songs all their own as they flew from tree to tree. And then a new sound—the sound of solitary footsteps across brittle twigs and dirt—joined the natural symphony.

He moved with the feeling of broken clockwork, in repetitive stepping motions that were automatic in their placement. He wore loose denim trousers and a dirty cream-colored shirt with ivory buttons rolled up to the elbows. A dark hat lay on his head in crooked stance, tipped over half of his shadowed face. Over each shoulder he carried a bundle, bound up tightly with thin leather straps. The prominent features of his dark face were stained with an unnatural fatigue, a tiredness that reached through his slender body like a plague. His eyes were hidden in the shade of his hat.

Suddenly he stopped, sliding his two bindles off his arms and down onto the path. He knelt on the earth as he massaged his stiff shoulders with his hands, then angled his hat upwards on his brow with a single motion of his finger. His eyes gazed about him at the scenery, slowly surveying the picturesque landscape and at the same time not taking a single bit in. He leaned back on his calves and dropped his hands to his sides.

The wind tickled the sweat-dampened hairs on the back of his neck. He blinked once, then raised a hand to shade his eyes from the sun as he tried to get a more thorough look at his surroundings. He wet his lips with his tongue as he did, then scowled. He could faintly make out the outskirts of a town, a ways down the dusty highway, almost looking to be out of place with its gray buildings in the golden landscape. 

He swore. He knew the place couldn't be more than a mile off. Another good half hour of walking would do it, and then he would be on a bus for the new ranch. His new life.

He coughed, choking on the dust picked up by the strengthening wind. He grabbed both of his bindles at once, then slowly straightened back up into a standing position. He hiked the straps up as high onto his shoulders as he could, then steadily set off in the direction of the town.

An hour or two passed, and by the time the man did reach the place, the sun had long disappeared behind the yellow hills. He stopped only once when he got there, to pause under a lamp to check his map for directions to the bus area. Afterwards, he easily found the spot. 

The bus pulled in at about a quarter 'til eleven, and opened its door shortly after. The man moved slowly towards the vehicle, in no hurry to get on. 

"Evenin'," greeted the large man sitting in the driver's seat of the bus. The other gave no sign that he had heard except a faint nod of the head as he climbed onto the vehicle, and did not bother to open his mouth as he made his way into the back of the bus and sat. Silence was something he would miss leaving behind in the country. 

The driver peered out through the door, checking quickly for any more potential passengers before pulling the lever to close the entry way. And then, with a pop and a jerk, the bus started, lurching forward into the dark night. 

They drove in silence for a few minutes, until the driver cleared his throat. "What's your name?" he asked, addressing his only customer for the night.

The first man's grip on his belongings tightened nervously. He hadn't spoken to another person for at least three days. He was silent for a moment, and when he did open his mouth to answer, his voice cracked. "George. George Milton."

"Well, George, if you don't mind me askin', where is it you're headin' off to in the middle of the night?" As the man spoke, his eyes did not leave the road.

George hesitated, then replied. "To work. On Skylark ranch."

"Ah," said the driver, nodding his head. "What you plan to do there?"

"Buck barley, I guess."

"Buck barley…" the large man scratched the back of his head, then went on in a louder voice. "Stan Stewart—guy who runs the place—nice fella."

"Yeah?" George leaned back into the torn leather seat, turning his head right to gaze out the window. "Never seen him before. What's he like?"

"My cousin Morty—he works there—says the guy is so damn nice he goes and gives everyone of his workers a break whenever they ask for one. Always makin' sure there's good food for the guys to eat, from what I hear. Real nice fella."

"That's good to hear."

"Yeah, and he's always givin' them little extra bits of money in their pay if he thinks they're doing a real good job. Bunk houses are never wet inside when it rains—he checks every month or so for any holes. Says he don't like to see his boys pointlessly sick when there's work to be done. Generous man, my cousin says."

"Got any family?" George asked.

"Yeah. Wife died a while back, though. Bad accident from what I hear. Don't like to talk about it much, Morty says. He's got a daughter. I never met her though."

George was silent for a moment. "How long ago she die?"

"Eighteen years, at least. Daughter weren't no more than a baby hardly, and she's all grown up now."

"And he never married again?"

"Nope. Just too brokenhearted, I guess. Hell of a nice fella, though. Throws one mean party, I hear."

A look of pain crossed George's sharp features, then was gone as quickly as it had come. He turned away from the window, faced forward and closed his eyes. He dozed as he let the bus driver continue to talk, drifting in and out of consciousness to once every few minutes hear the occasional fact about his new boss. And so it went on like that for a while, he didn't know how long it was exactly, but sooner than he'd expected the driver stopped the bus. 

"This is where you get off." The driver explained, shoving the lever that controlled the door over to open the exit. The clunking sound of the metal bar woke George, and he quickly gathered his belongings. He sidestepped through the aisle and towards open door, nodding his head to the driver as he moved out onto the dirt path. The door slammed shut behind him, and the bus lurched forward with a pop, then quickly vanished into the night.

Skylark Ranch. George looked around at his surroundings. In the dark it was hard to make out exactly what was there, but it was obvious that the place was big. He would have to get a closer look in the morning, when there was more light.

George heaved his two bindles higher up onto his shoulders. In front of him higher up on the hill sat a large house, looming even blacker than the night sky. None of its windows were lit, and no sounds of life were to be heard coming from within. Shrugging a bit, he crossed the dimly lit dirt path to the porch. With quiet steps he climbed up the stairs to the door. He raised a hand to knock.

"What're you doing?"

George faltered, startled, and dropped his hand to his side. After a moment, he slowly turned his head in the direction of the voice. "Lookin' for Mr. Stewart." 

"I'm Mr. Stewart," the voice spoke back, swiftly and suspiciously. "What you want with me in the middle of the night?"

"I come to buck barley." He paused, then added, "Got my work slip right here if you need to see it."

"Come here."

George watched as the owner of the voice stepped under one of the lamp posts. He was a straight, proud looking man, with proportioned features and a strong face. He had on a pair of black slacks, held up by dark suspenders over a white collared shirt with grayish buttons. He wore no hat over his clean, half bald head. His arms were crossed over his chest.

As soon as George could see where to go, he stepped over to Stewart, holding his work slip out before him to the other man. Stewart took it quickly and checked it over. "Strange time to be showing up to work, in the middle of the night."

"I don't have to start 'til tomorrow," said George. "But I ain't got no place to stay, neither."

Stewart regarded these words with careful thought, then nodded slowly. "Alright, but don't let me catch you up here again. We don't use this house. It's off limits."

"Sorry."

"It's O.K. You didn't know." Stewart was silent for a moment, then he turned and began to walk down the hill. He motioned for George to follow, and when they had reached the bottom and were on the dirt path, he began to speak again. "Bunk house is this way. The guys there can tell you how things run around here. Unless for some reason they've had a change of habit, they should still be awake. Me, I gotta get some sleep."


	3. Two

****

Two

****

The Skylark bunk house was less of a bunk house than it was a boarding room, a small rectangular building attached at one end to what must have been the cook's kitchen. The structure was a sturdy one, one that looked unlikely to have ever have given its residents any sort of excessive discomfort. The walls on the outside were a painted selection of deep brown wooden boards, completed with a matching shingle roof. The two longer sides each had six windows, and the others had three. On the front side of the building was the only door, a screen model with a distinctively blue dyed wooden underneath. Under each of the windows on the wall with the door rested small boxes filled with assorted varieties of flowers, adding cheer and personality to the otherwise mediocre edifice.

Inside, the walls were painted to mirror the exterior while the wooden floor was left to its original appearance as unpainted wood. There were four beds to each of two walls, with only one unmade and without sheets. Above each bed was a small lamp, and nailed next to each lamp was an equally small shelf. The seven occupied bunks all had their own personal possessions stored in their little shelves; pencils, newspapers, magazines, bars of soap, razors, medicines, combs, and even the occasional hardback. Beneath each bed was a slide out drawer, where the clothing of the worker was to be kept. In the back of the room was a desk covered with various pens, papers, and waxes, and above the desk hung a large gray clock. A worn looking wooden table was stationed at the center of the room, surrounded by crates used as chairs.

At eleven-thirty at night, the bunk house was usually filled by the men who stayed there. Some would be playing cards at the center table, some would be writing quick letters to far-off relations or sweethearts at the desk, and some would be reading their magazines or books while they sat comfortably on their beds. It was a rare occasion when one of the men would turn-in for the night before midnight struck the clock. Out of habit, all the men waited for one to go to sleep, or one to call it a day and tell everyone else to go to sleep. That's how nights ran in Skylark's Cobalt bunk house, given its name by boarders on account of its almost inapt blue door.

That particular night, an exciting game of euchre was being played out at the center table. Two men were locked in battle, and the ones not playing were making small bets on who they supposed would win. The building was relatively quiet, with sporadic bursts of whispers to be heard from around the room. The click of the door being unbolted startled everyone, and a few men jumped in surprise.

The door opened and the neat looking Stewart stepped in, followed by a tired George, struggling to keep his bindles from falling to the floor.

The men's eyes all drifted to the worn face of the stranger, whose own eyes were cast warily to the wood floor. The men then exchanged a few looks of curiosity amongst themselves, then turned back to face their boss as he cleared his throat.

"Sorry to be interrupting your game, but a new guy just come up from town." He gestured in George's direction. "This here's…"

"George Milton." George finished, raising his eyes to boldly greet those of his new partners.

"There. He's gonna be buckin' barley with your team, Kelly."

One of the men playing cards, the broad-shouldered one, nodded. He squinted his dark eyes appraisingly at George, almost as if he were trying to guess how much competition the new man would provide. He had curly, deep russet colored hair, combed back out of his eyes and towards the back of his head. He wore an open collared yellow shirt, unbuttoned at the top, and jeans. His body appeared very muscular; the bulge of his physique could be seen even hidden beneath his clothing. His jaw was powerful looking, and his mouth was drawn into a tight line.

"Buck barley before?" he asked finally. 

George nodded. "Done it tons of times. My last job, actually."

Kelly shrugged, looking back to his hand of cards. Stewart turned to face George, his expression unreadable. 

"'Night then." He stepped out of the bunk house, letting the door close behind him with a click, then brusquely walked on and away until the sound of his footsteps faded to into nothing.

The bunk house fell into silence for a moment, until George coughed. He eyed the bed in the corner, the one without sheets. "That mine?" he asked.

"Hell yeah." The other man playing cards, a lanky, tall looking guy, grinned. He had messy hair that tumbled into his eyes like it had never seen a comb before. His face was angular, and he had a large nose and adam's apple to match. His denim jacket's collar was pulled up around his neck. He had a friendly air about him that instantly made him a likeable person. "Right next to mine."

"Sleepin' next to Walt—new guy's doomed already, an' he jes' got here," someone cracked, and the bunk house roared. The uncomfortable silence that had fallen upon the place when the new edition to the house had entered seemed to have been broken, and George smiled gratefully.

"Oh, shut up. I ain't that bad." Walt said defensively.

"No, you jes' crazy like hell, that's all," another voice tried, and the men laughed some more.

Walt shook his head and faced George again. "Don't listen to them. They don't know left from right, so they ain't half as smart as they think they are."

"You good for workin'?" Kelly spoke up again suddenly. 

"Yeah. I ain't nothin' to scream about, but I know what I'm doin'."

"Good, 'cause if I had a penny for every man I got on my team who couldn't work jack shit, I'd be one hell of a rich fella." He shook his head, smiling at his own joke. "Days ain't so lazy 'round here. You get up early, the Jap cooks feed you, you head out to the fields, lunch's at noon, head out to the fields again, come back at six, eat dinner, and there you have it. Rest of the day you have off, but by the time dinner's through you ain't got much to spend. There's the occasional break in there somewheres, and Sundays you get off. So don't be expectin' no time for relaxin' or nothin' like that."

"Don't sound too bad," said George. "Damn easy compared to some work I've had to do."

"I dunno, but if you make it 'til Sunday, we have some real fun." Kelly smirked, and George didn't bother to ask what that fun was. He decided to change the subject.

"I saw your flowers out there. Under the sill."

"Yeah? Nuts, ain't they?"

"Who planted 'em?"

"Gardner. Big nigger fella. You wouldn't know it by lookin' at him, but he's soft as a lamb. Says the flowers brighten up the place or somethin'. I don't know if the guy's all there."

"I think he's nice," Walt broke in, raising an eyebrow at Kelly.

"Yeah, well, you got somethin' good to say about everyone, don't you?"

Walt's eyes narrowed, but he spoke to George. "Like I said, some of us ain't half as smart as we think we are."

Kelly returned Walt's look, and George nodded, trying to be vague and not take any side by accident. He stepped towards the bare bed, looking it over as he neared. "This ain't an actual mattress, is it?"

"Believe it. Boss is rich as they come." The animosity between the two men had vanished with the change of tune, and Walt expressionlessly examined his cards. "Rich as my kings here."

"I'll be damned if you ain't bluffin'," Kelly muttered, then added to Walt's comment, "He's got enough money to retire now, if he wanted to. He don't though. Likes that feel of a little extra cash in his pocket."

"Wish I had a little extra cash to feel," George said, dropping his bindle onto the bed.

"Amen." Walt agreed, fingering his cards. Kelly looked across the table at him impatiently.

"How long does it take to make a move?" He asked, scowling.

"I don't know—as long as it takes to make your head blow up works for me," Walt shot back, then addressed George again. "Boss has a lot of workers to pay and a family to feed."

"Family? If you could call it that," Kelly scoffed, shaking his head.

George sat far back on his bed, reclining on the wall behind him. "He has a daughter, don't he?"

"Yeah. You ain't seen her yet, have you?" Kelly leaned back in his chair, using his cards as a fan as he waved air towards himself. 

"Of course, Kelly, she's just walkin' around out there in the middle of the night," said Walt, his sarcasm evident.

"Wouldn't be surprised if she was."

"I haven't seen her." George pulled his bindle onto his lap and began undoing the leather straps. "What's she like?"

"Well, she looks nice, but trust me, she ain't." Kelly shook his head, as if the woman he was talking about was some sort of disappointment. "Right bitch if there ever was one."

"She ain't that bad. She just don't like Kelly, that's all." Walt smirked, turning his head to look over his shoulder at George. "Isn't nice, though. She's pretty nasty to everyone. Her tongue's so damn sharp it's like an axe. Never heard one woman say so many unwomanly things ever in my life. It's like someone stuck a needle up her ass and it's drivin' her to take it out on us. Only one she comes close to bein' decent to is her daddy. Everyone else just gets burned."

"I hate her already." George had finished unclasping the first strap, and was now moving onto the second.

"Shame, really." Kelly murmured, and Walt rolled his eyes.

One of the men across the room yawned, then rubbed his arms across his eyes in attempt to get the sleep out. A second yawn followed this one, and then a third, until it seemed that the whole room was yawning at once. It was nearing that time of the night when the bunk house would turn in, and soon not a man would be awake. Still, George was not ready to sleep.

"What happened to his wife?" He asked quickly, standing up to straighten his blanket across the mattress. No one answered at first, then Walt spoke up.

"I don't think any man here really knows. Accident, I think. Not natural at all. Whatever it was, the boss ain't talkin' about it and his daughter ain't neither. You seen that house out there?" George nodded, so Walt went on. "That's their old place where they lived before she died. Won't let no one go near it, Stewart. Says it's off-limits to us workers... But then, I don't see him lettin' his daughter go near it neither. It's like he's trying to bury it or something. Like it never happened."

George's body stiffened at the comment. After a few seconds, he nodded slowly, and then sat down onto his newly made bed. His face had turned a pale color, like paste, and he blinked his eyes hard a few times as though something was hurting them. The tired look he had worn when he entered the bunk house had doubled in his posture.

"Say, you alright there?" Walt studied George's face, cocking his head to one side as he did. "You don't look too good."

"No, I'm fine." George said, his voice taking on a strained tone of apathy. He stretched himself out on his blankets and dropped his head onto his pillow. He turned away from the rest of the room to face the wall. "Jes' tired, that's all." 

Walt shrugged, and stood up slowly from his position on his crate. The other men in the room all shuffled towards their beds, and the ones already on their beds laid down to sleep. A few called out weary goodnights, but most fell immediately into the deep slumber of most hard-working men. Kelly shook his head smugly at Walt's back as the other man dropped onto his bed, as though his leaving the game first meant a win for himself, then reached up over the table and turned off the electric light, throwing the room into instant darkness.


	4. Three

****

Three

Sounds of dishes clattering and knives and forks beating against plates filled the air during dinner time at Skylark, accompanied by the banter of ranch men exchanging their tales of the day. Men cluttered all of the ten checker-clothed wooden tables, shaded while they ate and talked by the leaves of the tall oaks above their heads. Scents of meat, corn, and beans wafted through the small area, delighting the noses of those waiting for meals of their own and who had yet to eat. A line of men such as these stood beneath the tin overhang outside of the kitchen building, chatting amongst themselves as they did. George was one of them, and with him stood Walt, and the two were speaking of the day's events as if they had known each other for years.

"I mean, you heard him, right?" Walt's mouth twitched, trying to form a smile. "_I bet you_ _I could carry three of these here barley bags at one time! _And then he tries it…" Both men's faces broke in amusement as they each raised a hand over their lips, trying to stifle their sniggering. Walt leaned in closer to George, preparing to give the final stanza of that day's story. 

"And twists his ankle at one!" Walt finished, and the two's bodies shook with contained laughter. Walt wiped his eyes, shaking his head and smiling amusedly. George leaned against the wooden post, fanning himself with his hat as his own face held a wide smile. He peered backwards along the line, and spotted Kelly near the rear, favoring his left leg as he waited for his own meal. George turned back to Walt, hitching a thumb back in the direction of the injured man.

"He always like that? Braggin' an' startin' fights an' pickin' on people?" he asked.

"Thinks he's the greatest, Mark Kelly. Best thing since sliced bread."

"I can tell." George placed his hat back on his head, then crossed his arms over his chest. "Hell of an idiot."

"And more." Walt shook his head. "You're gonna see so much crap from this guy that you're gonna wanna get yourself miles away from him. Haven't a choice though, of course. We're on his _team_. And there ain't no complaint filin' like there is at those fancy businesses back east. So we carry on." 

"So that's how it is all the time with him? Don't he ever do nothin' people like?"

Walt's eyes peeked left then right, then he said softly, "I know it ain't nice of me to say so, but I'll be one hell of a happy guy when he kicks the bucket."

George snorted, and Walt grinned. 

"Well, hey, George. Now that you're here, I'll have more help pissin' off that bastard."

George shook his head. "Nah, I like to keep my neck outta that sorta thing."

"Oh, come on! George, you gotta live a little, my friend. Sip the cup of life! Taste the bitter sweet dregs of mortality! Live it up!"

"Where did you come from?" George asked, laughing.

"Sacramento, but that's not the point. The point is that you need to lighten up! Have fun! Get a girl!"

"Get a _girl_?"

"That's right! A girl! Now you're startin' to—"

"Where the hell you find a girl in these parts?"

"In the town. There are a lot of girls in the town."

"Are you talking about real girls or two bit floozies?"

"Well, both. Regular and two bit, or cheaper, depending on where you're lookin'. Some more expensive too, but we ain't rich now, are we?"

"Well, I don't really have the money—"

"Oh, bull. I seen your cash, and there's at least a hundred bucks in there. That's fifty flops."

"Fifty flops. Are you out of your mind?" George laughed again.

"Yes, but you're the one who brought up the drabs."

"I did?"

"Yup."

"Well, I wasn't talkin' about no fifty flops."

"No, that was my elaboration. You _could_ have fifty flops."

"I have a hundred and ten."

"Excuse me, fifty-_five _flops."

"This ain't really somethin' you talk about before dinner." George shook his head. "And besides, it's all garbage anyways." Walt shrugged.

"Well," the other man said, placing a hand on George's shoulder. His face was serious. "I guess a man's gotta sleep sometimes."

"I guess!" He shoved Walt's hand off his shoulder, and they both laughed. Their amusement drew looks from others in line, and even some eating, but the two men didn't seem to notice. When their mirth had died down, they moved into the serving portion of the line, where the food was being shoveled by the cooks onto the men's tableware. George and Walt stepped up to take their plates, then progressed to get the beans, corn, and meat plopped onto the dishes. As they disengaged themselves from the line and moved towards the tables, George took time to check over his meal. His stomach growled as he eyed the steaming steak, and as soon as he and Walt had slid themselves into facing opposite seats at one of the tables, he was ready to dig in.

Walt took no time in beginning; his fork was already in his food before he'd fully situated himself on his seat. He looked up at George as he chewed some meat off the utensil. "Ain't you gonna eat?" he asked.

"No silverware," George answered, throwing one leg over the wooden bench. "I'm gonna go get some right now."

"Hurry back, or I might move on to seconds." Walt pointed his fork in the direction of George's plate, and George smiled and shook his head. He put his other leg over the bench, then stood up and walked back towards the kitchen, hurrying so as to not have to put Walt's words to the test. As he neared the area, the resonance of shouting reached his ears.

"This dumb bastard was behind me! I was first, so I get my food first!" The unmistakable sound of Kelly's voice came, followed by the stuttering of another man.

"I was—just so hungry—"

"You was just so hungry, well guess what, I'm hungry too!" George stepped closer to the argument, and saw the mean look in Kelly's eyes as he yelled at the smaller man. His twisted ankle had made him subject to weakness, and he'd been looking for someone to take out his wrath upon ever since. If he beat the guy up, it would show the other men that he was still the toughest guy on the ranch, despite his small injury. His pleasure in causing the other man discomfort was evident even through the put on anger.

Kelly took a slow step towards the man, grabbing at the other's collar. "I got a mind to teach you a lesson."

George opened his mouth, preparing to defend the other man, when another voice spoke up first. "Last time I checked, Kelly, this was the kitchen, not a schoolhouse." 

Kelly's head jerked around in the direction of the voice, and George followed his gaze. Standing a few feet back near one of the props holding up the tin overhang was a girl. She had round eyes shaded with dark makeup, and her full, un-rouged lips were pulled into a shrewd smile. Her brunette hair was curled expertly into large ringlets that hung down just a little past her shoulders, and she wore a cream-colored blouse and blue skirt with matching heels. She was thin and shapely at the same time, and she held herself in a self-assured posture that made her appear taller than she actually was. One eyebrow was raised quizzically at Kelly. "Well?"

"Well what?" Kelly spat back.

"Well, aren't you gonna let him go?" Her voice had a smooth, rich tone to it, one that sounded both feminine and forceful at the same time.

Kelly turned away from the girl and eyed the man in his grip. With only a moment's hesitation, he dropped the other guy back onto his feet. His face took on a strange shade of red as he began to speak in a soft voice to the newly released other man. "Just don't let it happen again or I'll—"

"Or you'll what?" The girl's eyes gleamed viciously, though she continued to smile.

Kelly was quiet for a second, then he finished. "Nothin'. I won't do nothin'." 

"That's a good boy. Now what do we say?"

The big man looked at the ground, his face darkening yet again. "Sorry," he muttered.

"What?" 

"Sorry," Kelly repeated, only a little more audible than before.

"Louder, Kelly, so we can all hear that pretty voice of yours."

"_Sorry_," said a beet-colored Kelly, his voice loud enough to reach even the farthest tables in the area. The girl's smile widened, and she nodded her head in approval.

"Good. It's nice to hear you apologizing like a civilized person, Kelly." George's eyes were wide, and he moved out of the girl's way as stepped forward and broke into the line just before Kelly. "Now, I need to get myself some dinner. I just got back from town and I haven't had a bite to eat since noon."

George stood still for a moment, then seemed to suddenly come back to life as he remembered what he'd come down to the kitchen for. He stepped next to the girl in line, on the side away from Kelly. He looked around nervously for the silverware, fully aware of the girl's curious eyes on his face. He felt the small jab of something poking into his left arm, and he turned his head in the direction. The girl was holding out a fork, spoon, knife, and napkin to him, a small smile on her lips. Gingerly, George took the utensils from her fingers.

"You're new, aren't you?" she asked, turning back and grabbing herself a plate from the counter. "My father said some guy came up last night."

"Yeah, I'm new." George stepped backwards and out of the line, but the girl continued to talk to him. 

"I thought so. What's your name?"

"George Milton, ma'am."

"Ma'am? There's no need for that. My name's Grace Stewart." She set he plate down on the counter so the cook could place the food on it, then extended her hand out to George. George eyed the small, well-groomed hand, then slowly lifted his larger, work worn one to shake. She smiled as they withdrew their hands, then turned back to pick up her dish. "No 'ma'am' in there. Just call me Grace."

"Alright." George's discomfort was obvious, and he tried to conceal it by turning away to face the tables. Grace's voice carried from behind him. "So, I guess I'll see you around."

"Probably." 

"Bye then."

"Bye." George waited a moment, and as soon as it was apparent that she had no more to say, he quickly walked back to the table where Walt waited. The other man raised head up from his plate to look at George, then leaned forward over the table to gaze back towards the kitchen. "Trouble?" he asked.

"Just Kelly." George moved onto the wooden bench as he set his utensils down onto the table. As soon as he was situated, he reached for his fork, and began to poke at his meal. 

"Hey, you meet the boss's daughter?" Walt asked, turning his head back to George.

"Yeah."

"She put Kelly in his place, didn't she?" Walt grinned, shaking his head. "That girl sure knows how to hit people hard with that tongue of hers."

"I'll say." 

"There she is." Walt nodded his head forwards, and George turned to look behind him. Grace was walking slowly with her plate towards one of the wooden railings surrounding the area, picking at her food with a fork as she moved. When she reached the fence, she climbed up onto it, and sat with her back leaning against the tall oak tree from which it protruded. She lifted the food covered fork to her lips as she gazed into the distance, a placid look on her face. After a few moments, she sensed George and Walt's eyes on her, and turned towards them with a smile. She lifted a hand to wave lazily at them, and George turned back to face Walt.

"She's a real card, ain't she?" Walt asked, smiling to counter George's bemused expression.

"I can't for the life of me begin to guess what she's got goin' on in that head of hers." George stabbed his meat with a fork.

"Can't you?" Walt smirked knowingly at his friend, one eyebrow raised. George ignored him, and lifted the punctured piece of steak to his mouth. The meat was cold.


	5. Four

****

Four

The lazy evening breeze drifted across the dirt yard in front of the Cobalt bunk house, tugging softly at the sporadic sprouts of weeds dotting the bare earth. The sun had cast a purplish color across the ranch in its scenic state of sundown, spreading great shadows like pools of black water onto the ground. The low sounds of men talking and laughing inside the bunk houses drifted weakly through the windows of the buildings, barely breaching the serene silence of the outdoors. The groaning sound of the Cobalt's blue door being opened was the first thing that really broke the stillness, followed by footsteps on the wooden porch, then the creak of the old stilted chairs that decorated it, and finally the voices of two men.

"An' that's how I come to work on this ranch… because of my ma." Walt's distinctively upbeat tone filled the evening air. "'Cause if we wasn't so poor, you can bet I'd be doin' tons of other things with my time."

"Like what?" George's voice asked, earnestly.

"Like… travelin', maybe. I don't know… but it wouldn't have nothin' to do with workin' on some other man's ranch." Walt hesitated, then began again, "A man's gotta have his own life at some time, ya know? One where he does things on his own agenda."

"I know."

"Well, I wanna do something special. My whole family's been a load of farmin' idiots. I love 'em and all, but their so damn… _afraid_ of tryin' new things. And I'm sick of it. I wanna be the one who breaks the old Foreman fam'ly tradition. I wanna make somethin' of myself." Walt reached over his head and toggled the small electric porch light, throwing a pale yellow light over George and himself. He set his arm back down on his lap slowly, looking at George's feebly lit face searchingly, then opened his own mouth to speak again. "I can tell you're a nice fella George. I could tell from the moment you stepped in that door you wasn't one of them nasty guys like Kelly."

George gazed off into the distance at the big, fordidden house on the hill, his expression unreadable. 

"And I don't want you to take this the wrong way, George." Walt continued. "But I just can't figure you out. You're so quiet. All you talk about is the here and now…" Walt broke off, shaking his head. "You know, I really don't have a single solid clue what you're about. And here I am tellin' you everything from the day I was born to this very moment, and you ain't told me one Goddamn shadow of a fact about yourself."

A few seconds of silence passed between the two, then George slowly opened his mouth to answer. "Things… they're complicated." The words came out of his mouth bit by bit, sounding forced. "And you're right, I ain't been sayin' much about me… There ain't much to say, that's all. I had a life before I worked here, but there's nothin' to share about it."

Walt eyed the other man skeptically, but kept his mouth shut. From the look in his eyes, it was apparent he didn't believe what George had said for one second, but wasn't going to make a fuss of it. They sat once again in silence for a few minutes, then the loud sound of barking filled the air, and a large shepherd dog bounded out of the bushes across the way. He looked around the yard, sniffing the air with his black nose, then turned his head to look at the men. He paused, and cocked his head to one side as he took them in.

Walt smiled. "Hey there, boy!" he called out, leaning forward in his chair. The animal yapped back, and began to wag its tail back and forth excitedly. 

Without warning, the wind suddenly picked up, blowing the hat off of George's head and onto the dirt path, landing directly in front of the large dog. George stood up with a shout just as the dog snipped the hat up into his mouth, then raced off gleefully with his new toy. George ran down the steps of the porch and after the dog, the loud laughter of Walt following him as he chased the animal. 

Soon his pursuit of the creature had led him further and further from the bunk house, and it wasn't long before the good-natured laughs of his friend had died out as the distance between them grew. Nonetheless, the dog raced on, and George, not ready to give up on his hat just yet, swiftly followed. 

The dog led him across the small field behind the bunk house, and then out towards the small woods that served to fence in the property on the one side. Without hesitation, the animal flew into the dark growth, leaving George on the outskirts of the woodland. He pause briefly, then too threw himself in, not yet ready to give up the fight for his hat. 

The forest was dark, and smelt of dirt and foliage. Though George could not see the dog or his hat in the dimness, he could hear the crush of the leaves under the dogs paws as he ran ahead, and that was all he needed. He pounded after the animal and deeper into the woods, all along the obscurity of his surroundings becoming more shadowy by the minute. 

Then suddenly, the woods ended, and George burst into a clearing. Once again, the sky above was visible, and the stars could be seen twinkling in the purplish twilight. George blinked, and slowly turned his head to take in the new place. The ground was relatively flat and devoid of trees, all except for one large oak, which sat positioned in the middle of the land. The oak was growing off from a huge slab of granite, its roots wrapped in a strangling grip around the rock. The tree's branches looked like they could have touched the very stars above.

George noticed his hat, sitting upside-down near the tree. A smile crossed his face, and he quickly stepped up to claim the item. 

"Evenin'."

George started, his eyes darting around, trying to locate the owner of the voice. His grip on his hat tightened, and he licked his lips nervously.

"Up here," the voice called again. George backed up, his eyes cast to the branches of the great oak above, until he saw her. Grace sat with both legs hung over one side of a fat branch, her fingers curled around the handle of an unlit lantern. 

"What're you doing out so late?" In the darkness, it was hard to make out her expression.

George hesitated. "My hat."

"Oh." She paused for a moment. "I guess you're probably thinking that maybe I shouldn't be asking you that when I'm the one sitting in the tree by myself, am I right?"

George was quiet, so she continued.

"I saw that dog come by with your hat. He dropped it on the ground, then ran off. I'm glad you found it, I was wondering who that mutt stole it off." 

"The breeze knocked it off my head, and he grabbed it and I chased him in here." George said, setting the hat back on his head as he turned away from the oak. "I better get back before they start wonderin' where I am."

"You haven't got anything to light your way. Here," she spoke in rushed voice from behind him, almost as though she didn't want him to leave. "I got a lantern. Why don't you wait a few minutes so we can walk back together?"

George didn't want to, but he agreed anyway. "Alright."

"Thanks." She said softly, and he could hear the sound of her movement in the leaves above. "Sometimes I just like to come out here and sit, you know? Nobody comes out here but me. And now you."

George had no intention of ever coming back, but he didn't say so. Instead, he let her go on.

"My mother used to climb this tree. She climbed a lot of trees, my dad says, but this one was her favorite. God, he'd have a fit if he knew I came up here." George could hear her laugh high up in the tree even from his place on the ground. "He hates it when I do stuff like this. Says it's dangerous. He just doesn't like it because mamma used to do it. He can't stand it when I do things she used to do. He doesn't like to be reminded of her. It's a damn good thing I don't look like her, or he'd probably refuse to even see me."

George stood silently with his back turned to the tree, listening. "He never says anything, but I think he misses her. Really misses her. And he relives her memory every day. You've seen that house on the hill. We all lived there when she was alive, but after she was gone my dad had the new one built. He never tore down the old one though. I think he's holding onto it like he holds onto the memories. Like if he has it torn down, a part of her will have been torn down too. He tortures himself, I think. He hasn't accepted that she's gone."

Her voice stopped. George fingered the pockets of his jeans in the strained quiet, waiting. Finally, Grace spoke again.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be saying this stuff to you. We hardly know each other. But…" she paused. "Sometimes it's nice to get stuff out, you know? I never told anyone here that before. I told my friends back in Chicago… Never anyone here."

George could hear her moving in the tree, the rattle of the leaves as she climbed down, the thump of her feet on the ground behind him, then the feel of her fingers on his sleeve. He turned his head to look at her as she lit the lantern, and suddenly the dark shadow of her body became a living person. Her eyes shone in the lamp light as she looked towards him.

"Thanks, George." She smiled gently. "You're a good listener."

He nodded, and with that, they started the walk back to the ranch.


End file.
